Tuesday, April 29, 2014

A lady needs an occupation, doesn't she?
When she's widowed, lonely, pining for a man she never could have, she should start a business, take an interest in the world and oh, by the way, pay off her ingrate dead husband's gambling debts.
Right?
Of course.
So what happens when the love of her life reappears in her parlor?
Hires her?
To find a wife for him?
Then, wants her to "audition," too?
Yes, I know you see where I'm going with this.
Lady Varney is wise, but oh so susceptible to a certain American pirate-turned-viscount's charm.
Read about risqué Lady Varney at all these vendors:AmazonNook
Coming soon to:
Kobo
iTunes.When?
Well, Amazon is out now. NOOK too.
All others soon, my darling, SOON.
I will post links for you here, there, everywhere. Stay hungry for my cherries! MORE TO COME!

Your nibble of my newest cherry?

Here it is!

Excerpt,
Copyright 2014, Cerise DeLand. All rights reserved.

Kitty stiffened
her backbone, but felt no stronger than a floundering mackerel. How she took
the circular staircase down to her drawing room was a mystery, given her knees
of jelly.

“Buck up,
Puss,” she chastised herself. She pulled open the double doors herself rather
than call her butler and crowd the occasion with unnecessary others. She needed
to look upon Justin Belmont at this particular moment alone.

And oh, my. Yes. To
realize that the newly dubbed Viscount Belmont, American-born, Englishman by
blood, nobleman now by adoption and the entail, was even more devastatingly
handsome than a decade ago when the world seemed fresh and full of positive
possibilities.

“My Lord
Belmont.” Kitty sailed toward him where he stood before her fireplace, her
expression, she hoped, one of civility. My
lord, how can you shake my sanity so easily with that harsh look? That painful
curiosity in your hazel eyes?

Here before her
stood the man who had saved her from lascivious Frenchmen more than a decade
ago. Huge and imposing as Satan then, he was now more muscular, his face more
angular, his hair more raven against skin more pale. In clothes that were
better tailored and more form-fitting than the loose linen shirts that once had
flowed to his fingertips, he was now the epitome of a titled English gentleman.
He gave no hint of the American privateer who had captured her body with his
boldness, her mind with his intellect and her heart with his artless charm.

She walked
forward, her gaze up at his imperial height, her hand out for him to take.

He touched her
fingertips, his own cold as the grave. “Lady Varney. Kind of you to receive
me.”

You don’t sound as though you think me kind. You
sound…dismayed, appalled, even—dear god—disgusted that you are here.

“Please, my
lord, do sit with me.” She nodded to one settee, and as he complied, she took
the one facing him. His eyes, such a myriad of earthen colors, faceted in the
lamplight of late afternoon. They flowed over her hair, her lips, her breasts,
her fingers. Everywhere his gaze touched, her body pulsed, remembering how once
he had looked at her with desire. Not this…this indifference. That sparked her
to lie with her next words, “I am delighted you have come to see me.”

He did not even
breathe as he said, “Are you now?”

“Of course,”
she countered his challenge, but stayed true to her manners by adding, “I have
heard of your recent good fortune.”

He cocked a
long black brow. “When the news is published in the scandal sheets as well as
the social notes, nothing in London is a secret.”

She licked her
lower lip. “Very little.”

“But this
service of yours,” he said with measured tone as he circled a hand in the air
to denote her business, “this is a
tidbit only the men of the ton share
with each other.”

She hastened to
agree. “Those who need help have found my—”

“Assistance?
That is what you call your match-making, am I correct?” One corner of his mouth
tipped up and she could not say if the move denoted humor or ruefulness.
“Whatever your services, I need them.”

He barked in
laughter. “If you knew that, dearest woman, you and I would not be sitting
here.”

Should she show him the door? She bristled
and sought to hold her ground, reprimand him, if she could. “You asked for this
appointment, my lord.”

“It seemed the
only way to see you,” he shot back.

“Perhaps I am
mistaken, but I was under the impression that you requested a Sunday afternoon
appointment because—”

“Because since
my newfound status as a peer of the realm was announced in September, you have
not invited me to any of your dinner parties.”

“Forgive me,
but you really wished an invitation to dinner?”
Incredulous at that conclusion, she felt a thrill sweep up her spine that he
might indeed not seek a wife. “I—I am only recently out of my year of mourning
for my husband, Justin, and those who may dine at my table with me do not
include bachelors.”

“Especially
bachelors whom you once knew? Ah, the rules of this blasted society!” He leaned
forward, his gaze at once tender and yearning. “Kitty—”

“Please, sir, I
am still Lady Varney to you.”

“You never were
that to me. Besides, you just called me Justin.” His eyes twinkled.

“I did not!”

“Of course, you
did.” He sat back, crossed one long leg over the other and seemed too well
satisfied with himself to soothe her ruffled senses.

“We are here to
discuss business,” she insisted with a hauteur that had him narrowing his gaze
on her.

It was not a
kindly glance, either, but the fierce glare he’d worn so long ago as he climbed
over the sides of the French Cyr to rescue her from those bastards.

He blinked.
Drew back and appraised her.

Good. At least we are now on firm footing. Two equals
about to do business. Not two older people who had cared passionately for each
other in their youth.

She tipped her
head when he remained silent. “Please tell me what you wish.”

He set his jaw,
never having cared for anyone to give him orders. “As you know, I am to inherit
the Earl of Belmont’s titles and estates. He is ailing. Sadly, I might add. I
have come to care for my uncle deeply in the past six years. When I first set
foot in England eleven years ago, I must say I had no idea he and I would ever
get on. But we did. Do. Save for one issue.”

Kitty nodded,
knowing precisely the matter that divided them. Touchy subject though it was,
she went on boldly, because that was her wont, because it was her business to
be forthright and because she knew this man very well. Or once had. “He wants
you to marry.”

Justin seemed
to retreat even further into himself. His jaw firmed. His lips thinned. His
large eyes turned to glittering stones. “He wishes me to marry an heiress with
title, high social standing and a suitable dowry. To put a fine point on it, he
wants the perfect woman.”

“The earl
thinks appropriately. His titles are six hundred years old and his estates are
numerous and bring in a sizeable sum each year.”

Justin snorted.
“My uncle was right about you.”

Kitty felt what
would come next would not be a compliment. “How so?”

“He declares
there is not much you do not know about the peers of the realm, their income or
their need for propriety.”

“To learn the
genealogies of the famous one hundred families was a favorite pastime for a
lonely little girl.”

His features
softened to a genuine compassion that made her heart ache. “You were alone as a
child?”

She swallowed,
not wishing to remember her youth. “I do have one sister, younger by ten years.
But our parents were preoccupied with society. Hence, the house was often cold
and dark. But the library was a wonderful room, warm and full of enchanting
tales. Not all of them were fiction.”

His mouth
spread wide in a grin and her memory of how those lips felt on her own was one
she told herself could not be so fresh after more than a decade. Yet, it was.

She tipped her
head, unable to suppress a smile. “Please tell me about the kind of woman you
wish me to seek for you.”

“Ah. Yes.” He
scowled, his glittering eyes hard as glass. “First, she must be lovely.”

“Of course.” No
less for such a striking man. Besides, a plain woman would be intimidated by a
husband who was so damned handsome.

“Blonde.”

“Blonde?” Hair
color was often listed by a man, but not usually this early in the discussion.

“Golden-haired.”

She shifted. That specific? “I see.”

“She must be a
peer in her own right.”

Kitty knit her
brows, recalling how her ownbarony of writhad been the lure to Henry. “Why is this important?”

“Her own blue-blood
complements my lack. Since I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, a lady
in deed secures my own legitimacy.”

Kitty’s mind
was racing. How many single golden-haired ladies who were titled in their own
right could she count? Four? Five?

“It also enhances
the reputation of any of my offspring.”

“True. I had
not thought of that.”

Looking
innocent as a cherub, he lifted a palm. “You see my logic.”

“Certainly.” Dear god, a taskmaster. “What else might
I add to her qualifications?” A huge
dowry? That’s what the ton says the
old Earl demands of you.

“She must be
shorter than I. Talented at the piano forte. A good conversationalist.”

“Really, how
interesting.” Her gaze wandered to her own French piano. She frowned and noted,
“Most men would have asked that she be a wizard at cards.”

He chuckled.

“Most bachelors,” she ventured, “want to
ensure they keep their money in the family.”

“Oh, never
doubt, my dear Kitty, that I have other requirements perhaps more astonishing
than not caring about my future wife’s ability at the card table.”

Oh, my.This was the point at which many men
told her they wanted peculiar qualities in their spouse. She hadn’t expected
any oddities from Justin. Would she be disillusioned as well as surprised? And
even more jealous? “Do tell me
what they are.”

“I want someone
versed in the art of conjugal bliss.”

Was she gaping
at him? “I’m sorry. I supposed, I mean, I presumed—”

“You thought I
wanted a virgin?”

“I did. Most
men do.”

“Not I.”

“Why ever not?” Was that her own shrill
voice?

A grin flashed
over his features. “I also want someone who has had a child.”

“A—?” Kitty
blinked, clearing her impression of this man who now seemed suddenly so
calculating. “Pardon me?”

“I need an
heir. I need to be assured that the woman I marry can conceive and carry a
child to term, birth him well and rear him. This means she must be of good
constitution. After all, I will need not one child but at least two. Preferably
three.”

“Three.”

“Children.”

Kitty could not
believe her ears at his extraordinary list, but nodded and went on with the
topic. “Raised by her, of course.”

“I want no
fainting lily. No frail Bess. And no parade of nurses and governesses.”

“But surely,
you need one,” she babbled, “ of
each.”

“Of course. One
governess. One nurse. And one loving mother.”

“I see.” Kitty
began to have a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach that signaled either
rage or a headache. Stress like this reminded her of verbal sparing with Henry
who thankfully had gone to his Maker. The cure for that had been for her to run
to her garden. Prune her roses. Trim her yews. At the moment, she could do
neither, but deal with Justin and his demands. “You are being very specific.”

“I am.”

“Almost too
much so.”

“Why do you say
that?”

She rose to her
feet, the sensation of standing so quickly made her head light. Airy. Euphoria
had her swaying. So unexpected was this feeling that she walked toward the
fireplace and put a steadying hand to the mantel. “Let me recount your
requirements.”

He nodded as he
sat in his chair, looking so infernally regal and congenial that she wanted to
gather the fine lapels of his frockcoat in her fists and shake him. “Proceed.”

“You want a
young woman, an heiress with wealth—”

He raised a
hand to make her pause. “She need not be young. Too young and she is not useful
to me as a wife who can bear children.”

“Quite. Shall
we say that you want a seasoned woman? Yes?”

He nodded. “Go
on.”

“Blonde.
Golden-haired, specifically. Shorter than you, so then she must be five-feet-four or five
inches tall. Good at the piano, in the assembly hall and the ballroom. Versed
in the bedroom. A woman who has already borne a child and who wishes to bear
more. She must also enjoy the process of raising them. Anything I have missed?”

He let his gaze
drift up to her cap of golden curls, then down to lock on her eyes. “That is an
excellent summary.”

She braced
herself for what she was now about to say. “I have made matches for men for a
long time.”

“Ever since you
began to emerge from mourning for your husband.”

She gave Justin
a small smile. Realizing he knew this about her was a delight. “Yes, and I have
created some very fine marriages. Though not all of my couples have yet taken
vows, those five who did, are very happy.”

“I shall have
to reprimand my man for engaging in gossip,” he told her but his eyes and his
lips quirked in amusement.

She tipped her
head, unable to resist grinning at him and learning more. “Your butler is a
good friend of my cook. They talk often.”

“To you as
well, it seems.”

“My sources are
legion. They help me with the work I do.” She raised her brows. “You must
realize to match-make I need to
know many facts about people.”

“A necessity of
your occupation.” He winked at her, sending her back to days on his ship when
she’d been so entranced by his charm.

She cleared her
throat and returned to the subject of his visit. “Your list limits me
severely.”

“I am aware of
that.”

“There are few
women who possess all the qualifications.”

He rose and
came to stand before her.

So close now,
she breathed his cologne. Smelled the mint on his breath. Admired the dimple in
his left cheek and the facets of green and brown in his large heavy-lidded eyes.
“In fact, there are only three women who meet all of your requirements.”

“Ah. But wait,
you have not heard them all.”

“No?
Preposterous! There is a very small pool of possible candidates, Justin. To add
more requirements would be burdensome—”

“But my fortune
will be very large. My homes, here and in the country, are grand estates. I
will be married to this woman for many decades, and I need the best companion
possible.” He frowned, very determined looking. “I have the right to declare to
whom I shall be joined!”

“Precisely so,
my lord, but we must be prudent.”

“You be
prudent! I shall be as I am!”

His virulence
shocked her.

“Your fees are
high. I shall have whom I want! Who is best suited to me.” He strode closer and
seized her arms, his powerful body dwarfing hers. Once his might had been
comforting, but now, full of fury, his size made her wince. She had been
intimidated by her husband far too often and she would not be by any man ever
again.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

The
Fourth Book in the Scorching Noble Passions Series by Sabrina York Releases!

Fans of Sabrina York’s steamy Regency series
have been eagerly awaiting the release of, the fourth book (following award
winning Folly, Dark Fancy and the scorching
Dark Duke) which follows the adventures of Violet Wyeth who is
captured by a vengeful Scottish Brigand…only to discover he is none other than
Ewan St. Andrews, the boy she once loved.

Noble Passions: Follow the decadent exploits
of friends and enemies as they find love and passion in the glittering world of
the Regency—and its dark underbelly. Each book is a stand-alone read.

Kidnapped and held prisoner by menacing Scottish brigand, the
notorious McCloud, Violet Wyeth does her best to persevere…and resist his rakish
charms. But when she realizes The McCloud is really Ewan St. Andrews, the boy
who once saved her life, the boy who once kissed her and made her heart
flutter, she is lost.

Ewan has every intention of marrying Lady Kaitlin
MacAllister. He desperately needs the entrée into the ton this bride can provide. But when his bride is delivered—bound
and gagged—it’s not Kaitlin. It’s Violet Wyeth—the girl who betrayed him and
ruined his life when he was a boy. He keeps her, determined to punish her for
her sins. But when he discovers the truth about what really happened so long
ago, and seething passion rises between them, he can no longer hold on to his
rusty grudge. By the time he realizes how much he loves Violet—that he always
has—he’s lost her.

All he can do is follow her. Follow her into the bowels of
hell—and partake in the torment of the glittering London Season, where the
harpies are far more dangerous than a Scottish brigand.

READ A STEAMY EXCERPT

By reading any further, you are
stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18,
please exit this site.

Violet stumbled on the stairs and the contents of the heavy
bucket sloshed, dousing her with hot water. She sucked in a breath as pain
seared. She set the bucket on the landing and pulled her skirts up. Her skin
was red. She ruffled the tatters of her petticoats, waiting for the sting to
subside.

The door to the Laird’s solar swung open. She stepped back
so it wouldn’t hit her and it slammed into the wall. The McCloud glowered down
at her. His gaze stalled on her bare legs. It was riveted—until she dropped her
skirts—then he snapped, “What the hell is taking so long?” His glanced back at
her damp skirts and his frown darkened. He picked up the last bucket and
carried it to the tub, dumping it in himself. “For god’s sake. How long does it
take to bring a few measly buckets up from the kitchen?”

A few measly buckets? It had taken twelve trips, each with a
bucket that weighed near as much as she. Violet glared at him. “Is that
enough?” She probably didn’t need to clip the words quite so much but she had
already worked for hours. She was tired and sweaty and her skin ached and Morna
was waiting for her to come help prepare dinner.

He swished his hand in the water. “Yes. I suppose that will
do.”

Not a thank you. Not a smile. Nothing.

Beast.

She whirled and started for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice rumbled, a deep
tenor. Her steps slowed.

“Back to the kitchen.” She frowned at him over her shoulder.
“I have work to do.”

“You have work to do here.”

“I beg your pardon?” What did he want her to do now, wash
his bottom?

“You’re going to bathe me.”

Her heart stilled at his words, his intent, and especially
his expression. “Wh-what?”

“Come now, Violet. The laird of the manor can’t be expected to
scrub his own back, can he now? Be a good girl, close the door and come over
here.”

She gaped at him. Gaped.
He expected her to remain in a room with a naked man? He expected her to touch
him?

“Close your mouth. You look like a trout.”

“But…I c-can’t. I can’t b-bathe you.”

“You can. And you will.” His eyes glimmered with something
other than humor. The unspoken threat hummed in the stony chamber. “You may
want to turn around while I undress, unless you want an early education.” He
began to unbutton his shirt.

With an undignified eep,
Violet whirled and showed him her back until she heard the splash and his gusty
sigh.

“All right, girl. Get to work. Scrub my back.” He gestured
to a chunk of soap and a sponge on a small table. She picked them up,
approached the tub and knelt behind him, trying not to stare at the bunching
muscles, the broad expanse of tanned skin. She couldn’t help but notice it was
covered with scars. Long and short, crisscrossing over one another. As though
he’d been brutally beaten and lashed time after time after—“Did you close the
door?”

Her bubbling sympathy evaporated in a rush. She stuck her
tongue out at him, but only because he couldn’t see. Then, with a heavy sigh,
she levered herself off the floor and closed the door. Well, slammed it.

His chuckle annoyed her more.

He leaned forward and peeped at her over his shoulder. “Come
along now. My back isn’t going to scrub itself.”

She took her place behind him again, being very careful not
to look at his broad, be-furred chest as she approached. She wet the soap and
sponge and created a lather. Being very careful not to touch him, she began to
scour his back. He winced. “Not so hard.”

His plaintive tone probably shouldn’t have sent a shard of
evil satisfaction through her, but it did. This man had been a boor to her from
the moment he’d found her on the floor in Callum MacAllister’s cottage. She dug
deeper.

He lurched forward. “Ouch!”

“Hold still,” she muttered, making a wide swath across the
ridged skin. “You’re filthy. I need to scrub.”

“I am not filthy.”

“You are. Stop wriggling.”

Amazingly, he did, though her efforts bordered on abuse. But
my, it felt good.

When she started on his neck and ears, he caught her wrist.
“All right. I think that’s enough.”

“I’m not done.”

“Oh, you’re not done.” He tugged her around to the side of
the tub so she faced him. She focused on his crooked nose, schooled her
attention not to drift lower. “Now it’s time for you to scrub my front.”

She really disliked his tone. There was mischief—and
something much darker—coiling in there. “Fine.” She dropped to her knees and
wet the sponge again, but rather than dunking it, merely skimmed the surface of
the water.

Fortunately the bath was murky, so she couldn’t see anything. But she knew what was down
there and she didn’t want to find it by accident. She trained her attention on
his chest, and her heart lurched.

A long, nasty scar scored him. Like a puckered lightning
bolt, it made its jagged way from his left nipple down to his belly. Her pulse
skittered. Her breath snagged in her throat. She’d only ever seen a scar like
that once before.

A scar exactly like that.

Her gaze snapped back to his face. She looked at him. Really
looked at him, perhaps for the first
time. Her mouth went dry. The gray eyes laced by thick black lashes. The broad,
smiling mouth. The curve of his jaw.

It couldn’t be. Could it?

“W-where did you get that scar?”

He glanced down and stilled. Annoyance flickered across his
features. “Every man has scars.”

“Not-not like that.” She sat back on her haunches. She
didn’t realize she was squeezing the sponge until water seeped through her
skirts.

“All right. A knife fight.”

“Knives don’t cut like that.” It was uneven and rippled, as
though the flesh and been shorn off in places and sliced in others.

“Well, it was a goddamn knife fight. I was in a vicious
battle with a man in an alley. I gutted him.” His lip curled into a sneer.
“Does it frighten you, my lady?”

“No.” But that was a lie. It did frighten her. Because Ewan,
her friend, the boy who had saved her, had gotten an eerily similar wound
rescuing her from a watery grave. And surely this wasn’t Ewan. It couldn’t be.

Ewan was gentle and sweet. He had liked her, maybe loved
her. He had kissed her. And this man… This man had taken her prisoner and
mauled her and put her to work.

“It wasn’t a knife. It was ice.” A whisper, but he heard it.
He froze, his gaze locked to hers. “You jumped in and found me in the water.
Lifted me out. But you couldn’t get out yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about.”

But he did. She could see it in his eyes. There, for a flash
of an instant, she saw that boy in
his eyes.

She licked suddenly dry lips. “Ewan? Is it you?”

He rose from the tub in an unholy rush. She didn’t have time
to glanced away. The vision of his naked body, hard and lean, scarred and
perfect, burned on her brain. He grabbed a cloth and covered his loins.

“This bath is over. Get out.”

She stood. Tried desperately not to tremble. “It is you. It
is.”

“Get out. Go!”

“What happened to you, Ewan?”

A dark cloud lowered on his already stormy brow. “What
happened to me? You mean how did I become the beast that I am?” The vitriol in
his voice made her shake, but she didn’t back down.

“No, Ewan. Where did you go? No one would tell me and I
always wondered…”

Every muscle in his body tensed, vibrated. Violet knew, because
she could see them all, a magnificent panoply.

She should have been afraid. She should have been horrified.
She should have skittered away like a frightened little rabbit. But she wasn’t
afraid. She didn’t run.

She knew—knew—her
Ewan would never hurt her.

Indeed, as he stared at her, his fury passed. He scrubbed a
palm over his broad face. “Go,” he croaked. His tone was laced with an emotion
she couldn’t decipher. Desolation? Greif? “Just go.”

Thursday, April 24, 2014

As
autumn comes to the Winston estate in Ohio, Amber Harrison learns further
lessons in her new position as keeper for the spirits and ghosts who haunt the
estate--and further lessons in love, too. She and her love, Carter Miller, grapple
with the fears and passions of new love, while caught up in the storm of
ancient family drama.

This
is the second book in the unfolding saga of the psychics and talents associated
with the Winston estate, a sheltered place where past, present, and future are
woven into a single dramatic tapestry of love and desire. The tale spans
multiple generations, multiple eras, and offers something special for all ages
of reader. A sexy, erotic winner, with an assortment of couples to appeal to
most tastes.

Excerpt: Copyright 2014, Tina Gayle, All rights reserved.

“How
long before you install the new cabinets?”

He
turned on the ladder. His dark brown eyes captured her, engulfing her in an
encompassing warmth. She melted under his heated gaze, which ran from the top
of her head to the white socks on her feet. He lifted a brow at her attire, but
he didn’t comment on her pink sweat suit.

“With
the old cabinets out of the way, I need to knock down this wall and tear up the
flooring. The electrical work is next on the agenda.” He climbed off the
ladder, yanked off his gloves, and slid a hand through his thick, wavy hair.

“It
might be awhile before we install the new cabinets. Right now, we’re simply
working to remove the old stuff so we can start fresh.” He smiled, which didn’t
hide the dark circles under his eyes or the fatigue in the slump of his
shoulders.

“There’s
no hurry. If you’re busy with something else, this can wait until your Dad and
Mattie come home next week.”

“No,
Dad doesn’t want her dealing with this mess.” Carter unbuckled his tool belt
and placed it on a workbench. “I promised him I’d have it done.”

“Is
Grant helping?” Amber stepped around several pieces of sheetrock and stray bits
of wood, to the bottom of the stairs.

He
walked to the backdoor. “Friday, his classes are over at noon.”

With
his hand resting on the doorknob, he appeared anxious to leave. “I’m headed to
lunch, and then I need to drop by the office for a while. Are you sure you’re
okay here by yourself?”

Amber
toyed with the idea of saying no. She missed the taste of his lips and the
strength of his arms, but she nodded instead. “Yes, I’m fine.”

After
opening the door, he paused. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

She
waved and turned to head to her room, satisfied she’d at least gotten him to
talk. Her leaden feet trudged up the steps. Unexcited, she contemplated her
latest assignment from the family council. How could she achieve such an
impossible task?